Could be vertigo. Could be flight instinct. Could be the fear that small, vulnerable things experience when they're in a big space without concealment. Exposed and scrambling for a corner, but also kind of thrilled.
An old career to restart. A new career to start. One book to finish. And, from out of nowhere... another book to finish. If I ever had doubts about the ability of a writing retreat to kick pants and grease wheels, they're gone.
All of a sudden, there's all this fresh air. Except it's not just fresh air. It's knocking everything down and whipping my hair into my face and you have to yell to be heard over it.
I've got a lot to do, suddenly. How do I feel about that? I don't know.